


when you need me (call my name)

by beccabuchanans (vestigialwords)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Typical Violence, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Gen, Kastle if you squint but it's not the focus, Lisa Castle lived, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Ideation, Threats of sexual violence, Threats of violence against animals, Underage Drinking, rape mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-28 03:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/beccabuchanans
Summary: Frank blinked once, then again. The face in front of him is impossible. Utterly motherfucking goddamn impossible. He knows that face. He's seen it every day of his afterlife, spent more time than he could track memorizing the smile that had burned an irreplaceable brand into his memory—a bright scar he could see every time he closed his eyes. Only—older now.He'd know his Lisa's face anywhere.In which Frank finds his daughter, and some trouble along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to update roughly once a week or so. It's mostly written, just needs to be expanded and edited. Please keep an eye on the tags, as some potential triggers and violence will start cropping up in later chapters.

Frank blinks once, then again. The face in front of him is impossible. Utterly motherfucking goddamn impossible. He knows that face. He's seen it every day of his afterlife, spent more time than he could track memorizing the smile that has burned an irreplaceable brand into his memory—a bright scar in his eyelids he sees every time he closes his eyes. Only—older now.

The plastic name badge hooked into her tee shirt boasts an unfamiliar name—Elise—but she has Maria's eyes, soft and kind as they glance up from her book at the tinkling of the bell announcing his entry. And that—that's his profile, or it had been, several blows to the face ago, before layers upon layers of scar tissue had accumulated at the bridge of his nose. He remembers kissing that exact dimple in her right cheek—a mirror image of her mother's. Her hair, though cropped short in a tomboyish pixie and nothing like he remembers, sticks up in the back in a untamable fluff of curls. He raises his hand absently to the back of his head. His hair is buzzed to his scalp now, but he had spent a great chunk of his teenage years wrestling with that exact cowlick.

"Welcome to Du—"

As she finally meets his eyes, she falters as well, squinting at his face like she's hunting down a memory she can't quite find.

A nasty scar dominates her right cheek, an obvious bullet wound tearing a scarred wake over her scalp. She's wearing a charcoal heathered teeshirt with a snarling pirate mascot printed across the front above some curved text—Central High Pirates. Her sleeves are rolled up all the way, revealing muscular arms and shoulders, riddled with a constellation of freckles and puckered bullet scars. She shifts smoothly but strangely when she hops off her chair, avoiding putting too much weight on her left foot in what must translate to a nasty limp. She recovers her composure but the left corner of her lips doesn't budge when she curls her lips up—unmistakable nerve damage—and the polite smile that she offers is cool and professional. In his memories, the grin creeps into her eyes and splits her face with the force of sunlight, but this woman, here in this shop, has a smile that doesn't touch her eyes.

Still. He'd know his Lisa's face anywhere.

"—Duncan’s Army Surplus. How can I help you?"

Frank Castle had never been a coward a moment in his life, but in this moment right here, he turns tail and _fucking flees_.

* * *

He finds himself at the gym before he can even comprehend where he is. He has a vague memory of greeting Jerry at the front desk as he passed by. He doesn't remember wrapping his hands in boxing tape, doesn't know why his throat feels like sandpaper as he exhales ragged breaths with each strike. The bag hasn't been flipped in a while. It's like punching concrete, but all he knows is the impact of his fists against the leather of the bag as they send violent shocks up his arm and down to his toes. It's not nearly enough to sate him.

He honestly couldn't even tell you how long he'd been working the heavy bag when the resistance suddenly increases. Karen braces her whole body up against the other side of the bag, stabilizing it against his assault. Her own hands are wrapped in clean white tape, and she's dressed like she ran here from her apartment. He rears back and gives the bag one last hit, though he pulls his punch at the last second. The bag moves, but barely—she's gotten stronger over the past few years, but she grimaces with the exertion of holding it steady.

"Jerry call you?" Frank asks as he walks away. His voice feels like broken glass grinding over gravel as he unwinds the tape from his hands. The lower layers of cloth are soaked through with blood, and he flexes his fingers to loosen the stiffness in his knuckles.

"Yeah."

He crosses the gym to the water fountains on the wall, dropping the tape into the trash on his way. He and Karen are given a wide berth as he passes, and a few of the newer gym members refuse to meet his eyes. Her voice is soft and tentative, but it cuts to the point, the silent question hanging between them. _What the fuck, Frank?_

He bends over to suck the stream from the water fountain nearby. She hovers behind him, hands on her hips as the cool liquid from the fountain soothes the angry rash of his throat.

"How's that uh, prison riot story going?" Frank asks as he stands back up, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"Fine." She plants her hands on her hips. "Riot's in its third day now—my source at Corrections says the Rapid Response team should be going in later tonight.

"Who's your source?"

"Levandowski."

Frank scoffs, "Piece of shit. Don't trust him."

"I don't. Don't change the subject."

Frank grunts, waiting for her to continue.

"I got a call from Jerry twenty minutes ago saying you're trying to murder the 150-pounder. You're scaring the customers—just look around you. Nobody wants to come near you. What the fuck is going on, Fr—" She catches herself and drops her voice down to a stage whisper. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Nothing."

Karen scoffs, rolling her eyes and following him as he scoops up his jacket from the floor next to the heavy bag where he left it.

"That's bullshit, and we both know it."

"Seriously, Karen, back off. It's nothing."

"Mhm, okay." Her hand darts out and circles his arm as he tries to pull away from her. Her fingers can't even wrap the full way around, but her thumb digs deep into the pressure point in his wrist and he recoils with a grunt. She lets his hand go, then plants her hands on her hips and looks to him for explanation. He sighs and scratches the back of his head.

"Look. I'm not sure." She raises an eyebrow and he continues, "Seriously. I... met someone today and she reminded... it's nothing. I'll let you know if something comes of it."

Karen sighs.

"If you won't talk to me, talk to Curtis, okay? Someone? I don't want this... I don't want to see you go down that road again."

Frank nods.

"Promise me," Karen insists.

The words fall out of his mouth before he can catch them. "Yeah. Promise."

* * *

Frank goes to bed early that night, or at least, he makes an effort. He wakes up several hours later, ears echoing with the sickening, relentless grind of carnival music laced with the bloodcurdling shrieks of a helpless and dying eight-year-old girl.

He suits up.

The morning shift of the NYPD vice squad scratches another pimp off their investigation board.

* * *

Curtis listens to his story over a beer in a dive bar with sticky surfaces and ancient pool tables stained with decades of stale beer, vomit, and probably worse. This isn't the kind of thing he can bring up during group, and it's not the kind of thing he particularly would want to even if he could.

"How's work going?"

"Pays the bills," Frank answers with a huff.

"Not what I meant and you know it."

"Beats slingin' a hammer, and teaching people how to put up a fight feels like a good way to spend time in this goddamn shitstain of a city."

"It is, man."

"Yeah."

"So lemme ask you a question Frank."

Frank exhales loudly and chugs down half of his beer. This conversation is inevitable, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

"Why am I fielding calls from a certain deceptively terrifying blonde lady about you attempting to explode a heavy bag for two hours last night?"

"There's a new girl working at Duncan's," Frank says by way of explanation.

"Oh?" Curtis' voice is laced with innuendo, an eyebrow shooting up to his hairline.

"Not like that," Frank adds quickly, his lip curling at the suggestion. "She's Lisa's age, and she looks just like—I don't know man, I think I'm going crazy, but..."

"Shit. Sorry, man." Curtis takes a sip of his pint, then continues sensibly. "Frank, Lisa's dead. We've both read her autopsy report."

"Yeah, and we've also read _several_ of mine."

Curtis sits for a moment, his eyes scanning Frank's face in silent scrutiny.

"Okay, so what are you gonna do, Frank? Are you gonna make contact, or...?"

"What am I supposed to do, man? Walk up to this random girl who doesn't know me from some creep on the street and say what?—'hi honey, I know you don't know me, but I might be your long-lost pops?' Sounds like I'm begging for a restraining order."

"Okay, so you've thought ahead that much, at least. That's good."

There's another long pause between them. Frank rotates his glass in the pool of water collected on the table.

"I dunno," Curtis apologizes.

"Yeah, me neither."

A flash of light catches the corner of Frank's eye—a Breaking News intro reel flashing across the television. He squints across the bar at the small screen, a live aerial view of Rykers Island Penitentiary—Frank would recognize those grounds anywhere. Columns of smoke billow up into the air from the windows—Maximum Security, where he'd been briefly housed and barely managed to survive an attempt on his life eight years ago. Just outside that building, several bodies pepper the rec yard, white prison jumpsuits stained red with blood—a sickly contrast against the lush green lawn.

"Hey, could you turn that up?" Frank snaps his fingers at the bartender, and a wave of muttered agreement flows through the bar.

"Breaking News from the Bronx this evening," the female announcer says, her coifed hair rigid in the heavy autumn gust that sweeps fallen leaves across the sidewalk behind her. "The situation on Ryker's island is currently under control with seven prisoners confirmed dead, and many more missing. Some of the missing were likely caught up in the deadly blaze in the maximum security wing of the prison. According to preliminary estimates, at least a dozen inmates remain unaccounted for. Among them are—"

Frank turns back to Curtis, who's staring at him with a grim expression on his face.

"Sounds like you've got some work to do."

"Keeps me busy," he responds, slapping a $20 bill on the table next to his half-finished ale.

* * *

The morning shift of various precincts are graced with a smattering of petty criminals bound in a circle by zip ties, groaning and unconscious on their front steps. Not a single one of them can give a description of how they got there, or who was responsible for their bloodied faces and bruised bodies. The Ryker's island escapee count decreases steadily, morning-by-morning.

There's a rumor that a new figure is rising in Hell's Kitchen. Some say it might be Fisk attempting to resurrect a following from the embers of his empire. Others insist it's a new player, a man who never shows his face, piecing together an army from the remnants of the gangs that once plagued the neighborhood. These sources stick to shadows and whispers though, terrified words rasped out through compressed windpipes of escaped drug addicts. Their memories yield a bloodied white skull splattered across a broad chest and nothing more, a mere nightmare filling in the terrifying details a drug-addled brain concocts to make sense of external stimuli. Frank Castle is dead three times over.

Pete Castiglione goes to work, cleaning and teaching at the gym. His specialty is the after-school children's self-defense classes. Something about the tiny eight-year-old fists flying entirely unselfconsciously over the littlest heavy bags he's ever seen in his life makes him feel something kind of like nostalgia. He watches with crinkled, smiling eyes, rearranges bad form with a gentle hand, and ruffles the hair on a particularly zealous little girl named Marina. She's a firecracker, that one. Reminds him of someone.

The parents pick up their kids an hour later, and if he has to ignore as several mothers scan him from head to toe, well, that just comes with the territory.

He gets Tuesday off with apologies to Jerry, though he realizes he could literally ask the man for anything. There's a coffeeshop across the street from Central High School, one of those fuckin' hipster joints where everything is decorated in white and chrome and you pay $12 for the privilege of looking at a goddamn dark roast. He tosses his cash on the counter with a scowl and the scruffy-bearded barista behind the bar slides an oversized coffee mug and a scone across the counter with an upturned lip.

Frank plants himself at a window table and watches as the students file out of the school for lunch.

It's reconnaissance—not stalking, he tells himself.

He watches this girl eat a lonely sandwich on the damp grass in front of her high school, a wistful eye cast over the high rise apartments that loom over the overcrowded red brick building. Shame bubbles up inside him then. It's a moment too lonely, too intimate, too soon. He hasn't earned this knowledge.

He eyes the empty seat across from him and slips away, hood pulled over his face.

Pete returns to work that afternoon, teaches a crop of elementary school children how to jab, kick, and fall without getting hurt. He gets home in the evening, turns on his TV and keeps his fucking nose down. According to the magnetic key granting access to the building, Pete arrives every night at approximately eight o'clock, and doesn't leave again until his run at precisely six o'clock the next morning. He grants no access to any visitors, not even a food delivery man.

There is no sensor on his windows though, and the roof of the next building over is a quick hop from the fire escape. An insane distance for a man with self-preservation instincts, perhaps, but that's never been Frank's issue.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a whole week before Frank musters the courage to return to Duncan's Army Surplus. He's running low on ammo and he needs to pick up some patches to cover the bullet holes in his favorite tactical pants, which are getting to be embarrassing, even by his low standards.

"Hey, Twitchy." The voice calls out as he's running his fingers over some boxes of ammunition. She hasn't looked up from her seat behind the counter, eyes still trained on her book—some nondescript textbook, history maybe—open in her lap. Frank knows immediately that he's been made. Her voice is laced with amusement, and he hears the clunk of her bad foot dropping from the counter to the floor. "Been wondering if you'd ever come back."

"You remember me, huh?"

"Not often that I strike terror into the heart of a grown-ass man. It's a memorable experience."

Frank feels a corner of his lips curl into a smile as he selects a case of .380s and approaches the counter.

"You're uh—Pete, right?" she asks, tipping her head to the side and studying his face. Frank opens his mouth to respond but the words stall in his throat. He nods instead. Without taking her eyes off his face, she runs his purchases under the scanner and continues, "I asked Duncan about you after you scampered off. He said you're a regular, to expect you back eventually."

"I guess." Frank shrugs, his voice barely scraping past his teeth.

"Must be, cuz this is some serious hardware, man," she says, finally looking down at the pile in front of her. "Think you're the damn Winter Soldier or something?"

Frank's heart skips a beat, but he recovers, sliding one side of his mouth up in a grin, holds up his flesh and blood left hand and wiggles his fingers in demonstration.

"They pay you for that attitude?"

"Nope, I throw that in for free."

He grins full at that before he can help himself, then gestures around to their surroundings.

"Seems like kind of a strange job for a girl your age."

"Mm," She says, sitting back down on the stool with a sigh. "Military types make sense to me. Always have. What you see is what you get. It's refreshing.

"Anyway, it's kinda hard to make friends when you look as fucked up as I do." She gestures to the side of her face. "Vets don't act like I'm broken," she continues. "They get it. They aren't scared of a bullet wound or two." She nods at Frank's bicep, where the pucker of a bullet hole neighbors the sharp tear of shrapnel from the freezer door all those years ago.

Frank rubbed his thumb over the rough skin of the bullet wound. "Kandahar. Mission went belly-up. This one," he pushes his sleeve up, revealing the rest of the tear— "Rescuing a civilian from a suicide bomber."

She hums in approval.

"How'd you, uh—yours?" He nods to her.

She touches her temple, the apex of the scar that traces a twisted path behind her ear. "Dunno. Had 'em as for long as I can remember." She curls one half of her mouth up in a smile, the other half frozen and immobile. "It's a long story."

Frank takes that as his cue to shut the fuck up.

* * *

"I need you to look into someone for me." He's standing in Karen's kitchen as she presses a beer into his hands. He takes a swig, and it's some fucking hipster ale, but he can't be mad at this, not really. Coffee-pretension is ridiculous, he thinks. Beer-pretension? They might be on to something there. He takes another sip.

"For the Punisher, or...?" She tosses the bottlecaps into her recycling bin and leans against her sink.

"No. For me."

"Mmm." Karen takes a swig from her own bottle and waits for him to continue.

"Elise. She works at Duncan's Army Surplus in Brooklyn and goes to Central High School."

"Who is this girl?"

"That's what I need you to find out."

"That's really not a lot to go on, Frank."

"The less I tell you, the more I trust your intel."

She looks down at the floor and the air between them thickens. Her shoulders sag slightly and she toes at one of the broken tiles on the floor. She's taken offense, which was the last thing he wanted.

He closes the distance between them, and runs his palm down her arm. She glances down at his hand, paused over her elbow, and he gathers her into his arms. Her blonde hair tucks gently under his chin.

"I trust you, Karen." Frank murmurs into her hair. "More than I trust myself. If you reach the same conclusions I did, I'll know I'm not losing my damn mind."

"Okay," Karen exhales against his chest and gives the slightest of nods. "Okay."

* * *

He's on his way home from work and he finds himself four blocks out of his way, walking past Duncan's. He doesn't really need anything, but a quick glance through the window shows him that Elise is working, so he pops in.

"Powerhouse Boxing Club," she reads off his shirt as he approaches the counter with a carton of matches and another box of canvas patches for his pants. "You a fighter?"

"Sometimes," Frank equivocates.

"You any good?"

"I can hold my own."

She seems to like this answer, nodding.

"Why, you lookin' for a fight?"

"Something like that. I used to train back home, mostly just with bags for workouts, but I had a sparring partner—Amanda. Tough bitch, didn't go easy on me even though I— well, you see me. Haven't found a gym yet in this city that isn't full of creeps though."

"We teach kids," Frank offers, hope swelling in his chest. "Tuesdays and Thursday after school. I got a good friend—pretty, blonde—who comes too. There's gonna be women there no matter when you come—10am, 10pm—Jerry keeps an eagle eye out for shitbags, and his wife is Kari Sutherland, women's welterweight champion of New York back in the late '90s."

She whistles, "That's some serious cred."

"No kidding. She's the second-most terrifying woman I've ever met."

"Oh really? Who's first?"

"My wife." He takes a sip of his gas station coffee and winces, "Maria." Her eyes narrow on his face and the hairs at the back of his neck prickle.

She shakes her head, then finishes punching the prices into the cash register. The total pops up on the digital display in front of him. "That'll be twenty-two dollars and eleven cents."

Frank tosses exact change onto the counter. Elise smiles.

"One batch—" she says under her breath, flicking the copper coin to slide across the counter into her waiting hand. She reaches back toward the second coin, and repeats. "—Two batch."

"Penny and dime," Frank finishes, voice low.

Her hand pauses over the till from where she was about to drop the two coins into their respective wells, and her head snaps up to meet his eyes. A rush of adrenaline courses down Frank's spine and time seems to slow down around them. She regards him with suspicion, her next words coming out cautious.

"... How do you know that?"

"It's from a book. I used to read it to my daughter before putting her to bed. It was her favorite."

A heavy pauses lands between them, and then a smile splits her face.

"That's insane! I've literally never met anyone else who knows that saying. I seriously thought I was crazy. Even my parents had no idea what that was from." She holds out the bag of supplies to him.

Frank ducks into a bookstore on his way home.

* * *

_Darkness. Clouds cover the moon, and an unforgiving breeze echoes through the crisp air. It's cold, so the birds and the crickets are all sleeping or have fled south for the season. He shrugs his shoulders, hiking his jacket up around his ears, but it does little to keep him warm._

_The granite slab in front of him cuts an ominous shadow against what little light is reflected off the other gravestones around him._

Lisa Marie Castle  
August 2007-May 2016  
Beloved Daughter

 _He stares at these words until they are all he sees, until they become his entire world. The only sound in his ears the wail of the wind as it snakes through the graveyard. Howling, groaning, moaning, then something else howling. Something from his feet—from beneath the earth. An ominous, begging scream vibrates up from the ground and through his thick leather boots, and pounding, pounding, a desperate knocking—_ let me out!

_Frank drops to his knees._

_He has no shovel, but he digs with his hands like a dog. Dirt grinds into his blisters, and his back burns from the weight of the earth. His nails rip clean from his fingers and still he digs. Dirt flies around him as he burrows deeper and deeper to the core of the earth. His own voice braids and twists into the wail, a discordant animalistic howl—but the knocking, the screaming, the pleas, never gets any closer._

Frank wakes up in a cold sweat.

The Punisher goes out on patrol and Rykers Island welcomes three murderers into its morgue.

* * *

Frank shows up early for group. Curtis hasn't even arrived yet, so he sets some coffee to drip in the kitchen and arranges the metal folding chairs in a neat circle in the center of the room. He's toting two full carafes back to the meeting room when Curtis finally shows up. Curtis holds open the door for Frank, and he sets the coffee on the card table in the corner. Wordlessly, he pours himself and Curtis a cup.

He'd done the best he could with what he had, but it was awful—nowhere near as good as that fucking hipster shit. He really didn't need another reason to hate himself, but here he stands, wrinkling his nose down into the white styrofoam cup, sneering in disdain at a cup of coffee that had once been perfectly acceptable. Curtis doesn't seem to notice.

"Sorry I was running late," Curtis apologized needlessly. "I was meeting with Father Donnelly. Apparently we got a huge anonymous donation this morning, and we were talking about some programs we might be able to implement."

"Outreach," Frank says. "New programming don't mean shit if no one is here to use it."

"That's what I said," Curtis sighs, taking another sip of his coffee. "Donnelly seems to think we should have some hobby classes or something though."

Frank groans, "Fuckin' book club, or some shit?"

Curtis arches an eyebrow at him. "Interesting take, coming from you, Mr. Nose-in-a-Book. That sounded like a suggestion."

"Fuck you." Frank takes a sip of shitty coffee. It hadn't been, but it wasn't the worst idea he'd ever had either.

Curtis takes a seat in his usual folding chair and puts his coffee down on the seat next to him. He stretches his leg out and massages his knee. Frank takes a chair a few seats over.

"Any news on the girl?"

"Went back in to talk to her."

"Yeah?"

"She busted my balls the second I walked through the door."

Curtis throws his head back and laughs, "Sounds like Maria's kid, for sure."

"Yeah," Frank says, still serious, taking a sip of his coffee. "Those goddamn eyes Curtis. I swear to God, they own my ass. Not even sure she's mine yet, but she could ask me to kill a man, and all I'd wanna know is 'how quickly?'"

The door creaks open and a young woman with dreads strides through the door, a muscular pitbull nosing along at her heels. She grimaces, like she's aware she's walking in on a private conversation, but Curtis smiles.

"Hey Deirdre," Frank greets her with an abortive wave.

"Hi Pete. Curtis." She drops the leash and the dog trots over to Frank, a wriggle wracking his body from nose to tail.

"Hi Chopper," Frank coos, manhandling the dog over onto his belly as the pup plops down at his boots. Chopper's tongue lolls out of his mouth when Frank finds a particular spot on his side and scratches. "Coffee's hot. Just made it ten minutes ago."

" _You_ made the coffee?" Deirdre asked, "Shit. I thought the point of coming here was to get over our trauma, not relive every messhall sludge we ever sucked down."

"Exposure therapy, Corporal Hernandez." Frank raises his arms in mock surrender as Curtis laughs. Chopper, like his mother, also has an opinion about Frank's behavior, growling and swiping his paw at Frank's face, an insistent order to keep scratching his belly. Frank is good at following orders.

The session that day is small and gets out early, which was somewhat of a miracle. It had been a good week for everyone, so Frank doesn't feel obligated to offer scraps of his own life in commiseration. Once the chairs are hung back up and the coffee pots have been washed, he checks his phone—a missed text from Karen.

 _Got something. Come around whenever_.

It's the longest subway ride he's ever taken. Four stops, a train change, five more stops, a three block walk to her apartment, and he's buzzing her front door. He notes with a slight smile that she still puts the flowers on the window sill when he comes over, even though it's been years since the white roses he left with her have withered away.

"Elise Shepard," Karen says, pressing a beer into his hands. She doesn't ask anymore, just has one ready when he walks through the door. There's a folder on the table between them, a haphazard collection of newspaper articles, court preceedings, and high school yearbook photographs. "Born in New York City, either 2008 or 2009. Orphaned at eight years old, bounced around in foster care for a few years before being adopted by a nice Midwestern family—Darlene and Frederick Shepard of Canton, Michigan, where she lived a relatively boring suburban life."

"What brings her to New York?"

"Divorce. According to the court proceedings, mom got addicted to Percocet after a fairly serious car accident, which graduated to heroin, then meth. Dad moved himself and Elise to New York to be near his parents once the divorce was finalized."

"And Fred? What about this guy?"

"Boring, middle-class guy. I nearly fell asleep reading about him, honestly. Freelance accountant, files his taxes on time so he's good—never been audited. A-neg and donates blood every eight weeks like clockwork, volunteered at local soup kitchens every other week until they moved. Couldn't even find an unpaid parking ticket."

"And her biological parents?"

"Dunno. I wasn't able to uncover any records from before 2016. Seems that her parents and her younger brother died in a freak random drive-by..." Karen trailed off, and Frank sees the exact moment the pieces slot into place in her mind. He watches as her memory flips through pages of case files cooked up by the New York District Attorney's office, lies and misdirection made truth with the stroke of a pen. He knows because he feels his own face twist into a mirror of hers.

Karen rips the yearbook photograph off the table and holds it up next to his face with shaking hands. A moment passes as her eyes dart between his features and the glossy photograph. "What the fuck..."

"Karen, I—"

"Shut up, Frank. Is this Lisa?"

* * *

Elise limps into the gym two days later while he's working the front desk and presents him with a crisp check for a year of membership. He pretends to process the check through their payment system and shows her around, pointing out the heavy bags, speedbags, weights, finally ending in front of the women's locker room. She shakes his hand in thanks, and disappears through the door.

She works the heavy bag for an hour. She nurses her left side, tucked behind a defensive left arm. It's a fatal flaw that she'll never be able to overcome, but as he watches her pound the bag in front of her, her right hook is no joke.

She eyes the ring in the center of the gym, but never approaches.

Once she leaves out the front door, he shreds her check, puts a stack of own cash into the till and marks her paid through the year.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have added a few tags. This chapter does involve a panic attack, so if that's something that might be a problem for you, please use caution while reading. 
> 
> With school starting, I'm unfortunately going to have to slow down the pace of posting, but rest assured, I'm still working on this monster. :)

Frank throws the shifter into first gear and yanks the handbreak. The street itself is nearly empty, between the cooling temperatures and mothers who've called their children in for dinner, only a straggling few kids remain outside. Sunlight pours at an angle through the trees surrounding the white suburban house across the street from his car. He reaches into his backseat to fetch the bottle of wine he'd purchased on his way over after work.

Sarah's van is up on jack stands in the driveway, a pair of sneakers sticking out near the wheelwell next to a tray of filthy oil. Frank approaches and raps the steel siding of the car door with his knuckles.

"That thing still runnin'?"

"Why?" Leo's voice calls out from under the car. There's a brief clang, and her voice is slightly strained as she tightens down the oil gasket. "Wanna give it another kiss?"

"Ahh," Frank waves his hand at her dismissively, but he smiles. She slides out from under the car, a cheeky grin plastered across her face. He reaches out a hand and helps her up, getting a smudge of dirty engine oil across his sleeve. He quickly twists his arm around so she doesn't see it and gestures at his car. "I'm due for one soon, actually. Think you can help a guy out? There's twenty bucks in it for ya."

"Definitely!" Leo says with a grin as she works on cranking down the jacks. "I gotta finish here before dinner, but next time you're over, for sure!"

"Attagirl," Frank smiles at her, pats her once on the back. He tosses the wine up into the air, spinning it to show her the label where she crouches. She's a week past twenty-one, so he doesn't expect her to have too much of an opinion, but that's not the point. It's an old-fashioned lighthouse overlooking a craggy island in a vast expanse of water, the words _Chesapeake Pointe_  scrawled in a handwritten script across the bottom. "What do you think?"

Leo wipes her hands off with a raggedy towel, leaning over to inspect the label. "I think if we open it second, no one will care what it tastes like."

"I like where your head's at."

"Come on kids!" Lieberman calls out the back door. "Dinner's almost ready."

"I think he means you," Leo smirks, holding up the bottle of oil and gesturing back to the car. "The adults are working."

The Liebermans' house had come to feel like a second home sometime in the past few years, and he feels less like a guest each time he walks through the door. Sarah's no longer flustered if the house isn't tidy when he arrives. They've graduated from feasts in the dining room to simple meals around the kitchen table. He even has his own pair of slippers that live in their hall closet and a mug that he's starting to feel entitled to.

Sometimes though, there are bad days. There are days when David can't escape that basement, even though neither of them have been back in ages. Tonight is one of those times, and David spends the evening silent, sucking down glass after glass of wine. Frank pretends not to notice as Sarah shoots her oblivious husband dirty looks across the table. He understands where David's gone, and can't fault him for slipping every once in a while.

Frank turns his attention to Leo and Zach to keep himself entertained, politely ignoring the silent facial ass-whooping Sarah's unloading on her husband. Zach bombards him with a slew of questions about military procedure. His twelfth-grade English teacher is encouraging him to submit his creative writing midterm to an Emerging Authors writing competition.

"The prize for first place is a five hundred dollar scholarship," Zach explains around a mouthful of mostaccioli. "So I want to make sure everything is  _super_ accurate."

"Tell you what," Frank says, clasping his hands together above the table, "I just learned how to read. So if your mom lets me out of dish duty, I could take a look after dinner; let you know what I think?"

Zach lights up with nervous excitement, and Sarah shoots Frank a grateful smile.

Under the table, Lieberman's foot bounces, and the wine bottle tinkles against the salad bowl. Frank runs through some quick mental calculations and shoots his foot forward. His boots may be sitting dormant at the front door, but the sole of his slipper connects firm with a fidgeting shin. Lieberman jumps in his seat and scowls at Frank, then downs the rest of his wine.

Leo ducks her head to hide a giggle, then launches into a play-by-play of her latest robotics competition—her university's team had come in second in the country in some sort of robot melee event, losing in the last round to UC Berkeley and a modified chainsaw.

"Those bastards!" Frank responds with exaggerated indignation.

"We'll get them next year—" she pauses as a conspiratorial grin slides across her face. "Hey, can I borrow your grenade launcher?"

"Sweetheart!" Sarah exclaims.

"No, you may not," Frank responds, scraping a large mouthful of noodles off his fork and into his mouth.

"Hah!" She crows, "so you do have one!" She elbows Zach in the ribs. "Told you he would!"

Sarah shakes her head in disapproval, but her face belies the amusement that she's trying to hide. Frank winks. They treat him like an appended member of the family, a semi-harmless adopted uncle, and it's a strange comfort.

After dessert, once the wine has worn off and the conversation reached a comfortable lull, Frank finds himself crouching near the front door, lacing up his boots to head home. Sarah once again thanks him for everything, and he pretends not to know that she still means "for bringing my husband home."

"It's nothing, Sarah, really."

He processes the movement out of the corner of his eyes a split second before the impact. A sick jolt of regret courses through him—he's let his guard down here, in this house, and put everyone in danger. His heart throttles against his ribcage as he looks around, a shock of curly brown hair blocking his vision. Frank breathes easy; it's just Lieberman.

Frank has to catch himself against the stairs to stay upright. David manhandles Frank's jacket, his breath thick with the sting of alcohol.

"David!" Sarah shrieks and takes a step toward them. Lieberman yanks Frank toward him, ducking his head to whisper in Frank's ear.

"Be careful out there Frank."

Frank furrows his brow, and brackets David's shoulders with his hands. "You're trashed."

He guides Lieberman back toward Sarah, who reaches for him. Lieberman wraps his arm around her waist to steady himself.

"Get him to bed, Sarah, okay?"

She nods.

David leans down to attempt to whisper in his wife's ear, but he forgets the crucial step of actually lowering his voice as he slurs. "Ask him about the fermented rice, baby. I'm gonna need—"

"Take care, Frank," Sarah interrupts, patting her husband on the chest.

"The rice!"

By the time he gets home, it's two in the morning. He's bone tired and so full of homemade cheesecake that he falls asleep face down on his pillow.

* * *

"Goddamn kids again," Jerry swears, scrubbing a bit of paint off the front door of the gym as Frank arrives. "Think they're fuckin' tough, playin' at bein' gangbangers."

Frank pushes his cap back on his head and examines Jerry's work, the faint outline of a spray painted puzzle piece still barely visible on the wet concrete wall. He's reminded of being on leave, stretched out on the living room floor with Frank Jr., solving a wooden puzzle together while they wait for Maria to bring Lisa home from kindergarten.

"Fuckin' punk kid in a hood just ran up and tagged the damn door while I was watching." Jerry spits on the sidewalk, "No goddamned respect."

"Did you catch him?"

Jerry throws the wire scrub brush into the bucket of solvent, and Frank has to hop back to avoid the splatter. Jerry fixes him with a withering glare reminiscent of Sister Anne Marie as he slid into first period sophomore chemistry, tardy for the hundredth time.

"What do you think?" Jerry snaps.

Frank nods and throws his hands up in surrender and jerks a thumb at the door.

"I think I'm gonna get to work."

"You do that."

He's sitting in his office, door open, literally balancing a goddamn spreadsheet when the rhythmic beat of fists against a heavybag breaks his concentration. He crosses his office and leans against the doorjamb for a minute and watches her work the bag—every third swipe or so, she glances sidelong at Martinez and Hobbs sparring in the corner, and a flicker of regret passes over her face. Her next blow hits the bag with a _thwack_.

He can't watch this anymore; it's too much. Frank grabs a pair of punching mitts and some helmets from the footlocker he keeps in his office. He tosses the gear into the ring, then turns back to her. He whistles to get her attention. She looks up at him, and he jerks his head toward the ring.

"I haven't paid for private lessons," she protests weakly, though her eyes are hopeful.

"Yeah, well. You've been eyeing the ring all week, and it's making me sad." He lifts the rope to let her climb through. "Get up here."

The smile that splits her face absolutely shatters him. He would light himself on fire in a heartbeat if it meant he could see that expression on her face whenever he wanted.

Her strikes are golden. The impacts slam the pad and rattle the bones in his wrist. He's not a young man anymore, and Lis is not a weak girl. She jabs at his hands with scalpel precision, a solid _pop pop pop_. No matter where he puts them, how hard he tries to throw her off balance, she whacks the mat with a snappy fist or a determined elbow. He's actually starting to breathe hard, and he feels the dampness of sweat spreading across the back of his tee-shirt.

Then, in an instant, she all but disappears. He ducks one of her right crosses and swipes his right hand out at her. Instead of the deflection he expected, it connects solidly with her left shoulder. Her left fist drops dormant to her waist, and she doesn't even attempt a dodge. She responds with a lazy swipe—her fists connect with his mats and stick like velcro. She sways.

He drops the mats to the floor and grabs at her gloves, but she yanks away from him.

"You're getting sloppy, kid. Dropping your fists and heavy on your feet."

Her fists flail at him then, unpredictable and sloppy. He steps in closer to her and she catches him square on the jaw. He doesn't quite see stars but it's a near thing—she's a heavy hitter, his girl.

"Shh-shh-shh, honey." Frank catches her arms and pulls them close. "Honey, where's your head right now?"

The instant his fingers curl around her wrists she freezes, her eyes bulging behind the padding of her helmet, staring off at some distant point through his chest.

He ducks his head down to meet her eyes, but she's not there. He snaps his fingers in front of her face—nothing. Her breathing—it's not exertion, but something feral, almost inhuman. Rapid bursts through the nose, the flow of oxygen stalled before it can reach the lungs. Something not uncommon to group sessions, actually. Curt usually handles this, has actual training to do so, but Frank's seen it happen often enough that he knows the drill. He wraps his arm around her back and her legs crumple under her. He guides her gently to the floor.

He takes a seat across from her in the ring, legs crossed. She lets him unwrap her gloves and he massages her hands with a firm pressure, predictable, soothing. He exaggerates his breathing and makes his movements as rhythmic as possible.

"I gotcha, Lis," he whispers. "You're okay. You're at the gym. We're sitting in the middle of the ring. You're not in any danger. You're safe."

Frank repeats the words, low and soft like a mantra, because he can't follow his truest instincts. His arms ache to pull her to his chest and guide her through the rise and fall of his breathing. He wants to gather her to himself and hold her tight like he had when she came creeping into his and Maria's bedroom after a nightmare. Wants to cradle her cheeks and wipe away her tears with his thumbs, bury his face in her hair and promise her she's safe and that he'll never let any harm come to her. But she's not crying—there are no tears to wipe, and eight years ago he proved that his promises mean nothing.

There are boundaries to mind—walls standing high between them that can't be torn down from his side.

Her eyes close as she lets him unstrap her helmet and remove it from her head, though her breathing remains ragged and sharp.

A moment passes, then slowly she stills, then blinks. Her eyes focus on his face.

"Water," she rasps. Frank glances over at the corner of the ring. It's just barely in reach if he leans over onto his elbow and stretches. He grasps at the bottle with his fingertips and hands it to her as he sits up.

"You back with me, kiddo?"

She chugs down half the bottle before flopping forward into her own lap, breathing slowly stabilizing.

"Yeah, sorry, Pete." She sits up, then pauses a moment to burp. "I just... sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy, being here in New York."

Frank doesn't say anything.

"I mean, I'm from here, at least, that's what my paperwork says. I don't remember any of it though. Like, everything before nine years old is an absolute fucking blank." She chugs down another gulp and stares down into the clear liquid like it holds an answer. "But every once in a while, I'll see a building out of the corner of my eye, or hear a sound, or fucking  _smell_ something familiar and it's like getting hit in the head with a hammer, and I just, fall into this... I don't know, abyss."

Frank nods. Elise takes another swig of the water.

"Sorry, I bet that sounds crazy."

"If it is, you ain't got a monopoly on crazy," Frank assures her.

"Yeah?" Her voice is hopeful.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I've been in the darkness too. Lost a few years to it when I got back from Afghanistan. There's a way out though, I promise."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They sit in silence. She finishes her water, staring into the top woefully. Frank hops up to refill it, and she smiles like she had been hoping he'd offer. Frank knows he's a fucking goner.

He gets back to the ring to find her bracing herself against the corner pole, her eyes flashing wild.

"You okay?" he asks, ducking into her view. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," she says, meeting his eyes, and he recognizes that expression. Sees it twisting and turning his own face in the mirror as he stitches himself up—pain. "I can't—my knee. I can't walk," her voice cracks. "Pete, I can't walk."

He looks down and her weight is balanced on her left foot. Her right heel hovers above the ground, only her toes in contact with the mat. He leaps up and is in the ring before he can even process his actions, and Elise drops back against his side. Her weight is nothing. He wraps his arm around her back and under her armpit, and together they hobble to the First Aid station. He helps her up onto the examination table, and she pulls her athletic pants up above her knee. Her legs as riddled with puckers as her arms are.

An image pops into his mind of a little girl barely eight years old, suspended in a full body cast in a sterile beige hospital room. No flowers or cookies on her side table, no toys left behind to amuse her. The TV is playing some shitty Spanish soap opera at a low volume, day and night. Nurses mill about, eating lunch in her room but paying no attention to the little girl trapped inside a tiny plaster prison. No family. No mother to comfort her, no brother to tease her about being a mummy, no father to read her stories to break the monotony.

Just a tiled hospital ceiling, and  _time_.

Frank nearly vomits.

"I'm okay, there's just a fragment still left in there," she explains, as if that were the most normal thing in the world. "The surgeons were afraid of damaging my growth plate if they went in to remove it. Sometimes it shifts and I have a bad day."

Frank turns away quickly to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He doesn't even try to speak; he couldn't have even if he wanted to. His throat has swollen up, and he knows that if he opens his mouth, he'll break. So he turns to rummage in one of the low drawers against the wall and pulls out an icepack.

"Can I—" she asks as he approaches her, cracking the barrier inside the packet and handing it over. "Can you get my phone, please? I need to call my dad."

Frank's stomach drops to the floor.

"Yeah," he manages. "Sure thing. Where is it?"

"Left my duffle by the heavies."

Frank returns with her phone, and excuses himself while she makes her call. First of all, it's not his business, but mostly he can't bear to hear the relief in her voice when she chokes out a tearful "Hi, Dad."

He checks on her a few minutes later with a fresh water bottle and some ibuprofen.

"It's not much," he apologizes, "but maybe it'll take the edge off. You got crutches at home?"

"Something like that." She downs the pills gratefully, swallowing them with a huge gulp of water as her phone buzzes with a text message— _I'm here_. Frank helps her down from the table, and together they hobble toward the front door. A middle-aged man explodes through the door and practically yanks Elise out of Frank's arms.

"Hi, Dad," she winces, letting herself be pulled away. Frank feels her loss like a missing limb.

"C'mon honey," this stranger says. "Let's go home."

Frank trails their heels as a strange man helps his daughter climb into the backseat of a taxi. Elise waves through the window at Frank, who's still standing on the curb in front of the gym as the car drives away.

Jerry has tidied up the ring by the time Frank gets back inside, and immediately tells Frank to fuck off. Frank scoffs, but appreciates the fact that the man knows him well enough to not plaster concern across his face. Frank's hands shake at his sides, and he nods, gathers his jacket and gym bag and hikes the mile back to his apartment. The RFID tag on his keychain is close enough to the sensor that the front door unlocks for him automatically. He takes the stairs slowly, stretching out his calves, or if he's being totally honest with himself—avoiding his empty apartment.

He's standing in front of his door, trying to fish his keys out of his jacket pocket when his hands close around a slip of paper he doesn't recognize.

 _Someone's trying to contact you_ the scrap of notebook paper reads in David's chickenscratch, then a list of coordinates. Frank jiggles his keys in the lock, slips through his front door, powers up his laptop. Google Maps may not be the most advanced GPS software, but it does the trick.

_Metro-General hospital._

_An anonymous point deep in the upstate woods, mere miles from Schoonover's house._

_A renovated office building that until three years ago had been a long-standing construction site._

_An apartment building that Frank knew for a fact was little more than a rat-infested slum with walls made of tissue paper._

Frank slams his laptop shut and tosses the computer onto his bed with a growl. He kneels down and fishes out the shallow chest he keeps underneath his bed, unlatches the lock, and opens the lid with a creak.

He's nearly tapped out. Two clips for his M16 and a single box of .22s. He's gotten sloppy recently, complacent, happy and stupid. It'd be suicide to go out with as little ammo as he has. A few years ago, he'd have climbed out his window onto the fire escape without thinking twice. But tonight, a lopsided smile pops into his mind and reminds him that he needs to stay alive. He slams the chest shut.

He sits back on his heels and stares at the book sitting on his side table. He'd only bought it a few days ago, but the spine is worn and cracked with how many times he'd thumbed through the glossy pages. He takes out his phone and shoots Lieberman a text message instead.

_Who the fuck is it._

He gets a response within seconds.

 _Dunno_.


	4. Chapter 4

_This mission is a fucking mess_ , he thinks to himself as he rounds the street corner. This mission is a goddamn gamble and there's almost no way he comes out of this dignity intact. If he'd been presented with these tactical plans he would have laughed in his C.O.'s face, disciplinary action be damned. This is such a hopeless, pathetic scheme. He's halfway down the block—sixty three steps—and he's counting on the observational skills of an adolescent civilian to spot a man who's pretending to not want to be noticed. Seventy-eight steps. The wrought-iron gates of the school loom over the cement sidewalk. This is a goddamn bad idea.

"Pete!" Elise's voice rings out and relief floods him. He wonders how he ever doubted her. Frank pushes his hood back and rearranges his shoulder bag like he's been caught off-guard. He reels like he's surprised to hear his name—like he didn't know she was exactly at his two-o'clock, five meters out, sprawled on the school's front lawn with her lunch and a book in her lap.

"Hey, kid."

"Whatcha doin' out here?" She places a bookmark in the pages and folds her book closed.

"'Bout to eat lunch." He gestures across the street with his hand still buried in his hoodie pocket toward the corner diner. They both look down at her half-eaten sandwich. "You allowed off campus?"

"Sure!" she said, pushing herself to her feet. "I can't let you be a sad old man in a diner by yourself. You're still too young for that life."

The chuckle erupts out of Frank's throat before he can stop it and he dips his head to his chest, then glances sidelong back up at her. She shifts her weight as she slings her bag over her shoulder, and it's then he notices the cane at her side. It's a simple thing, but looks custom made—chrome finish and a padded handle. She wields it like an extra limb, like she's been using it her whole life, and it strikes Frank like a blow to the head that she probably has.

She hobbles to the front gates, and slams her limp sandwich into the trash on her way out. She doesn't go so far as to flip the bird to the grim stone building as they retreat, but something about the way she falls in next to him, her pained steps infused with a familiar swagger, and she may as well have.

"'Or something,' huh?" He nods at the cane.

"Yeah, I don't need it all the time, but since..." trails off. She wiggles it as they wait for the walk sign to come on. "I don't love it. Hard to be a normal kid when you're the only one walking around with a cane. But I guess that ship sailed a while back."

Frank hums, and she doesn't say anything more. The light changes a moment later, and he slows his gait to keep pace with her as they cross the street. Frank reaches the door first, and holds it open for her. She selects a corner booth with a questioning look over her shoulder. Frank shrugs.

"You live around here?" she asks, sliding into the booth across from him and tossing her books on the table.

"Not anymore," Frank lies—he'd never lived here—scanning the room, assessing his surroundings. She's placed herself with a view of the exit, forcing him to take a seat with his back to the door. It's not ideal. "Place is a comfort, you know?"

She nods. The waitress drops a pair of menus on the table and fills their empty mugs with coffee. Frank offers a hum of thanks and Elise's face disappears behind the laminated card.

The waitress comes back a few moments later to take their order. Elise takes some time to scan the walls of the diner, kitsch and vintage Americana nailed to the walls, unsteadily rocking on their fastenings each time a truck rumbles past. Frank sucks down half his coffee in the silence that follows before glancing down at the title of the book between them— _Crime and Punishment_.

"Some light reading?" he gestures down at the tome.

"AP English," she snorts. "Literally shoot me in the face."

She doesn't mean anything by this, and he knows. The rational part of his brain scrambles to maintain control of the situation, but before he can recover, an eight-year-old scream ricochets through his memories. Frank blinks, powerless, as the bullet flies past him in slow motion. He watches as it tears his wife's throat asunder, her blood splattering hot across his face, the last expression he ever sees on her beautiful face a twisted mask of pain and terror.

—Watches as a second bullet explodes his son's chest.

—As his baby girl collapses off her carousel pony, one foot still caught in the metal stirrup, head cracking wet against the metal floor just as his world goes black.

A whistle brings him back, and there's Elise, staring at him with wide, apologetic eyes.

"It's just an expression," she insists, but her hand fluffs the hair at her temples, rearranging her short curls to flop over her scar. "Sorry, but yeah, you're right. That was insensitive.

"Sorry," she repeats, not meeting his eyes.

He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. "It's not your fault, kiddo. I'm just an old man with some fucked up memories, yeah?"

"That's not your fault either, you know?"

Hearing those words while the memory of her lifeless eyes burned like acid through his mind was almost too much to bear.

"Sweetheart, you say that," Frank sighs. "But you don't know who I am."

"Sure I do," her voice teeming with absolute certainty. "You're Pete Castiglione, boxing teacher extraordinaire and _probably_ not the Winter Soldier." She grins at him but the sunlight shining from her eyes is eclipsed by the stillness of her right cheek. She sighs. Her face falls, and yeah, that's even worse. "Look, I know pain when I see it. Had my fair share of it." She sweeps her hair back off her scar as if making a point. "If you don't have control, it can't be your fault though, right?"

Frank scratches at his nose with the back of his sleeve, or, that's what he tells himself. If he wipes some moisture away from his eyes in the process, that's between him and the cuff of his goddamn sweater.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Last thing you need on your lunch break is a weepy old man."

Elise shrugs. "There are worse kinds of men."

The very notion raises Frank's hackles, makes his hands curl into fists under the table and his trigger finger dance. His blood boils over with the urge to hunt down each and every single shitbag who made her statement so cavalier.

Mercifully, the waitress chooses that moment to deliver two heaping plates to their table. Frank's a traditionalist, a massive plate of eggs and sausage patties, buttered toast and hashbrowns. Elise has upgraded her floppy homemade sandwich to a massive double-decker grilled monstrosity with extra bacon.

She shoves a corner of her sandwich into her mouth and jabs at him with a french fry.

"You don't have a monopoly on suffering, you know?"

Frank chuckles, "Yeah, I've heard something like that."

"Mm—smart cookie, whoever said that," Elise continues around a forkful of coleslaw.

They fall into an easy conversation then. She complains about her history teacher—an ancient woman could probably teach World War II from memory if she only had control over her classroom. There's a math teacher who spouts thinly veiled nationalist propaganda between drilling them on the quadratic equation and demonstrating how to take a derivative, and an English teacher who prides himself on how few As he awards to his students. Frank responds with a story of his own, an overzealous C.O. whose sole ambition was to make him cry.

"Did he?"

"Fuck no," Frank scoffs, then takes a sip of coffee. "Not to his face."

"Shit, dude," Elise laughs. Actually laughs, a long extended, wheezing laugh. It's nothing like the girlish giggle from his memories, but it's honest. More importantly, it's _real_ , it's happening in front of him, and that's miles ahead of the echoes of his fading memory. He can't help but chuckle along. "I'm sorry. What'd he even say to you?"

"Uh," Frank scratches his nose, "Said my daughter should be ashamed of me."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she snaps, shoving an entire french fry into her mouth. "You believed him? I take back my cookie observation."

A wave of glee crashes through him and he ducks his head into his sweater to hide the redness rising in his cheeks.

"Anyway, where are your kids? I never see them around the gym."

Just as quickly as the wave of elation washed over him, it ebbs, leaving a gaping vacuum in its wake. He exhales heavy, rubs his hand over his face. "Yeah. They don't live with me anymore."

"Divorced?"

"Something like that. My son's with his mom."

"And your daughter?"

He shrugs, plastering what he hoped was a nondescript grimace across his face.

"Shit. I'm so sorry, Pete."

The table rattles between them, and Elise looks down at her phone and sighs. She pokes at the screen and the vibrations stop.

"Time's up?" Frank asks as he gestures to the waitress for the check.

"Yeah," she grumbles, "just about. Sorry to leave it like that." She offers him a sad smile, and his heart rattles against his ribcage.

Frank walks her back across the street to the front gates of the school. A few other stragglers file past them. Most don't take notice, but a few glance his way and Frank finds himself tugging his cap absently down over his face.

She's about to head up toward the front steps when he remembers the book tucked into his shoulder bag. Her eyes widen in shocked recognition when he tilts it toward her to reveal the illustration on the cover. The spine is cracked and worn, and sometime during the morning, he'd managed to rip the dust jacket in a few places, but he holds it out to her. Behind her, a warning bell sounds, but she pays it no mind, frozen in place. 

"Picked this up a few days ago," he explains. "It's a little beat up, but yeah. Thought you'd enjoy it."

She takes it from his hands with a smile and flips through the pages, mouthing along with the words as she skims through. He swears he hears the echoes of an eight-year-old girl as she commits the text to speech. She stops, a few pages in, and looks up. "This isn't the copy you read to your daughter, is it?"

"No," Frank assures her.

"It looks pretty banged up."

"Been carrying it around for a while."

"Hm..." Her voice is laced with doubt.

"Look," Frank shrugs. "Maybe it'll help you feel less crazy, yeah? Something real you can touch when your mind goes... wherever it goes when things get bad."

She studies his face, her eyes scrutinizing his expression. He's a raw nerve, standing out here on the pavement, exposed in a way that he hasn't been in years. This child could say a single word to him and rip him apart, and he'd drop to his knees and thank every deity he's ever heard of. Instead she closes the book, and clutches it to her chest.

"Thanks, Pete," she says. "Really. You're very sweet."

"Get to class, kid."

She limps up the path to toward the front door of the school and navigates the concrete steps with ease. At the top, she turns to wave at him as she slips through the door. Just as she disappears out of his sight, the final bell rings.

He's made her late for class. Father of the Year.

* * *

Frank is two chapters and a finger of bourbon into a used copy of _Crime and Punishment_ when his phone buzzes—Lieberman. He picks it up on the third ring, marking his place on the page with his thumb.

"What?" He dispenses with niceties, training his eyes out the window to the street. It's early evening, and the current of foot traffic along the sidewalk is steady, waves of people streaming past one another. The warm tendrils of the bourbon are just beginning to lap at his thoughts, and if he lets his eyes slide out of focus, the crowd becomes almost viscous, swirling around itself, the ebb and flow of hurried bodies on their way home after work, or out for a night on the town.

"Frank. They're after me now too." His voice is manic and Frank can practically see him racing around his house snapping all the blinds shut. "What the fuck have you been doing? You need to be more careful, man. They know where I live, they know—Jesus, Frank, _they know where I live_."

Frank furrows his brow and blinks hard, trying to will the bourbon haze from his mind. He closes the book in his lap, places it on the table next to his chair.

"Frank, my _kids_ , Sarah, I—"

"Whoa, whoa, David, slow down," Frank interrupts. "What's going on, man?"

"My house got tagged."

"What?"

"In broad fucking daylight, Frank. Graffiti all over my garage door. Sarah's freaking out man."

"Probably just some kids screwin' around," Frank sighs, running a hand down his face. Outside, a bold figure cuts a path through the other pedestrians. A confident strut with a leather jacket and baseball cap, a tuft of dark hair peeking out at the neckline. The flow parts for him like a boulder dropped in a quiet stream.

"Some kids!?" Lieberman exclaims. "Frank, I'm me, you're you. Look at our lives. Who we are. This isn't just some kids, man. It's a message. Check your email."

Frank sighs again, closes his book and reaches for his laptop, sitting just out of arms reach on the couch where he'd left it last night. He can feel the nervous energy vibrating through the phone connection. He doesn't need to see David to know that he's hunched over his home computer, leg vibrating double-time under the table as he waits for Frank's ancient laptop to boot up. Frank glances out the window again. The figure in the street has stopped to lean against a storefront, and is studying his phone, glancing up and down the street every once in a while as if waiting for someone.

Frank pulls up his email, filtering out the tirade of curses David unleashes about his obsolete technology. There's a single message resting in his inbox, and it's from one of Lieberman's burner accounts. No text or subject header, just an attachment. Frank clicks on the paperclip icon.

"This a virus, David?" Frank asks, only half-joking. "You tryin' to get me to upgrade?"

Lieberman sighs and Frank can practically see him wracking his hands over his face. "I'm not fucking around right now, Frank."

The photograph loads on his screen. It's a snapshot of the garage door taken on a cell phone, just as David had promised. Judging from the fact that Sarah's van sits in the driveway, home from work, and the length of shadows cast by the out-of-frame figures standing around the small backyard building, it must have been taken in the last thirty minutes or so. The off-white paneling of the garage door is dominated by the outline of a crudely drawn puzzle piece. Inside the outline, a series of numbers and symbols had been scrawled in barely-legible script—another set of coordinates. Frank runs through some rough mental calculations—somewhere in the city, most likely.

"That's _your_  building, Frank."

A shock of adrenaline courses down Frank's spine and he jolts out of his chair, laptop clattering to the ground in front of him. His sights snap back to the strange figure outside his window, who at that very moment pushes himself off the wall and slips the phone into his pocket. In his hands, he's shaking something back and forth as he darts into the dark alley across the way.

"Yeah." Frank jabs his finger at the end call button and snatches his keys from the table next to his front door. He flies down the three flights of stairs and bursts out the front door, narrowly avoiding a collision with Mr. Tucker from 3F, who unleashes a slew of profanity that would have made his drill sergeant jealous.

Frank sprints across the street, dodging cars and ignoring the frustrated honks and heckles of cab drivers who couldn't have moved an inch in the rush hour traffic even if they'd wanted to. Out of sheer muscle memory, he fingers the weathered KA-BAR from his belt as he rounds the corner and steps into the alley.

He's alone, the smell of fresh paint stinging his nostrils.

The buildings on either side of him are a strange pair—one a modern monstrosity, remnant of the Fisk era, cement stones stretching for the sky, a grotesque facsimile of the luxury living available in the wealthier areas of town. The other is a designated historic site, a former speakeasy turned into a museum, the porous brick newly scarred with a shape that was becoming all too familiar. Frank reaches a finger out to touch the black outline marring the rich red brick of the building. Still wet.

A puzzle piece, and inside, a single word: _hi_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Check the Tags! Some quick content warnings for this chapter: **Suicidal Ideation, Threats of Sexual Violence, Threats of Violence Against Animals, and a Rape Mention**. These are all talked about in a single scene, but not explicitly depicted. If you want to avoid these topics, skip the group session scene. You'll miss a little bit of plot development, but not much.

It's not hard to find crime in New York City, whether you're looking for it or not. He remembers a crooked half-smile, and tries not to look for trouble, and instead calls Karen and invites her out for a drink at some dive bar in Hell's Kitchen. Judging from how long it takes her to get there, she's coming from work, and she's overdressed, as usual.

She hops up on the stool next to him, ignoring the eyes that inevitably land on her, a lithe blonde woman sidling into a dingy bar. Before she can even open her mouth to order, the bartender, a rotund middle-aged woman in a denim vest, has dropped a bottle of some craft beer off in front of her with a wink. It's not even an option on the paltry menu she'd slapped down in front of him, and he eyes his own piss-pale pilsner with disdain. Karen takes a swig without batting an eye.

"Come here often?" Frank says with a raised eyebrow.

Karen chuckles into the bottle. "More than I care to admit, honestly."

"What do you know about gang tags?"

"Straight to business, huh, Frank?"

He grunts in response, a meager apology.

"Not much," she continues, "but I know some people who may. Why?"

"Been seeing somethin' around town," He pulls a printout of the photograph he'd taken of the graffiti outside his home, and slides it across the bar to her. "When they tagged the gym, I thought it was just kids, but then Lieberman got hit. This afternoon it was outside my apartment—fresh. Someone's after me, and I need to know who."

She puts the bottle on the counter with a clunk and holds the photographs close to her face in the dim light of the bar.

"A puzzle piece?" Karen drops her hands to the bar. "What's going on, Frank?"

"Not sure yet," Frank responds. Karen hums and drinks, her lips curling around the bottle as she looks sidelong at the photo like she's waiting for him to continue.

"Lieberman has some sort of algorithm running, checking for activity at certain locations in my past—Metro General, that shed in the woods," Frank pauses and Karen's hand flies to her mouth. "My first apartment after..." he trails off. "The construction site I used to work. Haven't checked, but I bet they've been tagged too."

Karen nods behind her hand. "Okay, I'll see what I can dig up."

They drink until Karen is bubbling over with giggles and her hair falls in front of her face, and Frank feels a light buzz under his skin. He picks up her tab over her weak protests, and he walks her home, plants a kiss on her cheek, and trudges the long walk back to his apartment.

He keeps his eye out for shadows, but catches only his own.

* * *

Every few days or so, his feet and growling stomach carry him toward Central High at lunch time. The second and third time, she waves him down from the school lawn. The fourth time, he finds her standing at the gate, scrolling through some photos on her phone before pocketing it in her bookbag with a smile.

The fifth time, she's not there, and his heart sinks.

He turns around to cross the street toward the diner anyway. Man's still gotta eat. Then there's a movement through the window, a frantic wave and a wide grin—Elise, seated at their regular table, a pair of steaming coffee mugs sitting in front of her and her cane hanging from the edge of the table

He slides into the booth across from her, and the waitress—Dora—brings out their usual order with a polite smile. Frank arches an eyebrow across the table as Elise squirts a mountain of ketchup onto her plate.

"How'd you know I'd be by today?"

"It's been two school days since the last time," she says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He hadn't even noticed he'd fallen into a pattern. He picks up his fork and stabs a french fry off her plate. "Freeloader."

"Look who's talking, mooch!"

* * *

Frank brings his own cup of coffee to group and drops into a chair with a slouch and a sigh. He's still full from lunch, but he absently takes a sip from the cardboard cup in his hands. Curtis looks at him with a smile.

"Finally treating yourself, huh?"

"Kiss my ass, Curt."

Outside the meeting room, a door creaks open and Chopper trots inside, making an immediate beeline for Frank. Before Frank can push himself up, Chopper's paws are resting on his thighs and a wet pit bull tongue lashes out at his face. Frank scratches the dog behind the ears and Chopper groans, leaning heavy into his hand. He chuckles, then pats the dog solidly on the side. Chopper grunts again, then one of his back legs reach up, flailing for purchase, a half-hearted attempt to climb into Frank's lap.

Dierdre comes through the door a moment later and arranges her face into a stern expression. "Chopper, down!" The dog groans, but obeys. It's pathetic, and Frank can't help himself from sliding off the folding chair and onto the floor. Chopper licks his face again and promptly curls up in his lap with a satisfied huff.

"He's supposed to be  _my_  therapy dog!" Dierdre grins, "Fuckin' cheater."

"What can I say, Corporal?" Frank slides a sly smile across to her. "A dog is a dog is a dog."

"Ain't _that_  the truth?"

The rest of the group files in and they start three minutes late with the weekly check-in. PFC Martinez has a new job at a mechanic's shop in Manhattan, working on Cadillacs and Lincolns instead of reassembling junkers with duct-tape and engine grease. Lieutenant Ivanova just got accepted to a Master's program at NYU, and Sergeant O'Reilly had managed to talk himself out of hurling himself off the Brooklyn Bridge on his way to group. Progress all-around. Frank spends the whole time absently stroking the sleek back of a snoring dog.

Dierdre is silent throughout ordeal, until finally she leans forward in her chair, elbows resting on her knees, staring down at her shaking hands. Chopper picks his head up, and looks at his mama, then back to Frank. Frank pats the dog gently on his ass, and Chopper trots back to her, settling between her feet. Her hands absently stroke at his head, and Frank pushes himself back up into his folding chair.

Dierdre raises her hand, and Curt gestures to the center of the circle, an invitation to take the floor.

"My old C.O. got out of prison yesterday." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "Apparently there's not enough room at Rykers after... everything. They have to clear cells for  _more violent offenders_." Her voice cracks around the last words, and Chopper licks at her hands. They've all heard her story, many of the other women in the room had even lived it. Frank had come across his fair share of shitbags who'd abused their power, even testified at a court martial or two—it was one reason why the rank of Captain never came down the pipeline for him. Everyone else he was in bootcamp with were well on their way to making Major by the time he was digging graves in Kandahar.

"Do you feel safe at home?" Curtis asks, rubbing at his knee like he does when he's stressed.

Dierdre doesn't answer, just pulls out her cell phone, scrolls, and jabs a thumb at the screen. She holds the phone out toward the circle.

" _—Hi Dee, I—uh—think we both know you know who this is. Haven't stopped thinking about you and the things you've done to me. Don't think I've forgotten how much you've changed my life. Oh, and uh—your dog's real cute, DeeDee. It'd be a shame if something were—uh—you know—to happen. Anyway, see you soon—_ "

She clicks the side button on her phone and the screen goes black. Chopper puts his paws up on her lap, and she leans down to nuzzle his face.

"Have you gone to the police?" asked a red-haired woman, Chloe, a relative newcomer, who wrung her hands in her lap with hunched shoulders. She was just barely off the battlefield, still jumped when a chair scraped across the tiles or someone sneezed too loudly.

Dierdre scoffs, but not unkindly. "Police got better things to do than investigate a halfway-threatening voicemail sent to a black woman in Hell's Kitchen."

"What's his name?" Frank rasps. He feels the bridge of his nose twitching his face into a snarl.

She blinks at him, furrows her brows and studies his face like she doesn't recognize him for a moment. "Why?"

Frank rearranges his face into what he hopes is a more neutral expression and shrugs. "Just wanna make sure he's not on the rosters at the gym, you know? Don't want him near—" Frank makes eye contact with Curtis, whose eyebrows shoot to his hairline. "—Anyone."

She nods, "Major Roy Bolan." She mimes spitting on the ground, like his name left a bitter taste on her tongue, and Chopper lets out a deep bark.

After group, he sends a message to Lieberman with Dierdre's phone number, asking him to hack her phone and trace the source of the message. He doesn't specify which voicemail, figures it'll be obvious. David, bless the man, doesn't ask questions, just responds thirty minutes later with an address.

* * *

Her knee is clearly still bothering her when he shows up for his evening shift at Powerhouse a few days later. She's limping around a heavybag, smashing the shit out of it, but she doesn't have her cane anymore and she's back to her baseline.

"Good to see you back," Frank smiles, catching the bag mid-swing. "How's your knee?"

She shrugs, slugging the bag again with a sharp crack. "Frustrating. I just wanna get better but every time I try this. fucking. bullet..." She punctuates each word with a swing at the bag, "I'll never be great and it pisses me off."

"Don't gotta be great, kiddo—just better than the other guy."

"And if the other guy is too big?" She lobs another bruising hit at the bag with a snarl.

Frank takes in her with narrowed eyes, scanning her visible skin for bruises, "Did something happen?"

"No!" Elise insists, stepping back from him. "I just—New York scares me sometimes. Small town girl in a big bad city, you know? Especially hobbling around on a cane. I just, don't feel safe sometimes."

Frank nods, then claps her on the shoulder. "Here, lemme show you something. Take off your gloves."

She follows him to the ring, and ducks under the rope he holds up for her.

"You're plenty strong, sweetheart, but yeah, some guy like me comes after you, you ain't gonna win on strength." He prowls around her for show, and notes that she holds herself higher—high like he would have—like a Marine. Proud doesn't begin to cover it. Having the right attitude is half the battle, and even though he can't take credit for it, the spirit of a fighter burns in her.

"But that's okay, right? You don't gotta fight strong." He stops in front of her and taps his temple with his index and middle fingers. "You fight smart, and you win every time. I'm gonna grab you, okay?" he says, checking her face for hesitation. He sees none. "And then I'm gonna talk you through how to escape, right?"

She nods.

He starts off easy, snatching her wrists in front of her. Before he can open his mouth to give her advice, she twists her hands around, plants them square on his chest at his center of gravity and shoves.

"Nice," he says, slightly breathless from the unexpected impact, stumbling back a step.

He's in the middle of talking her through escaping a bear hug—drop your weight, stomp my foot—no really sweetheart, _stomp_ —okay, now take out the knee, but not really, thanks—when the front doors of the gym slam open.

"Get your _fucking_  hands off her!"

The voice echoes through the gym and the space grinds to a halt. The patter of fists against leather stops, the kickboxing class in the far corner stalls, and the welcome spiel at the front desk cuts off mid-word. All faces turns to look toward the center ring. The whir of the fans above and the heavy footsteps of Fred Shepard stalking toward the ring the only sounds breaking the silence. Frank unwinds his arms from Elise, and without thinking steps forward to place himself between this man his brain has labeled _threat_  and his baby girl.

It's the wrong move.

Fred notices the gesture, and his face goes red with rage and he hops into the ring. His approach is careless and Frank calculates about seven different ways to neutralize him in the three steps he takes forward. Instead, Frank clenches his teeth as this man crowds his face. Frank holds himself stark still, clasps his hands tight behind his own back, and casts his mind back to boot camp.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Fred spits. "Following my daughter to school, inviting her to your gym, giving her sick little gifts, putting your paws all over her? You some kind of pervert, Castiglione?"

"No," Frank grunts through gritted teeth.

Elise shoulders past Frank, and grabs Fred's forearm.

"C'mon dad, let's go," she insists, her voice soft but insistent. Her cheeks are flushed red and she doesn't pick her eyes up from the floor.

Fred deflates at his daughter's touch, but his eyes flash with determination as he jabs a finger in Frank's chest.

"Stay the fuck away from my little girl, or I will kill you."

Elise drags her father out by his arm, glancing back toward him just once, just long enough to mouth "sorry" back at him before disappearing through the front door.

Frank blinks back a wave of tears and rolls his shoulders. Silence—all eyes linger on him, standing alone in the center of the ring.

The noise that erupts from him then is barely human. It vibrates out from his core, a primal detonation of despair and desperation—a dark snarling roar, ripping his throat ragged.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please once again note the tags have been updated. (SPOILERS) This chapter includes **Attempted Date-Rape, Underage Drinking,** and **Use of a Date-Rape Drug**

His every instinct screams at him to go out on the prowl. The caged beast inside his chest howls and rails against his ribcage to go out hunting, to tear the throats out of any dirtbag unfortunate enough to cross his path; to bathe himself in the blood of criminals and scoundrels; to hurl himself back into the abyss of being the Punisher, consequences be damned.

He resists. His cache remains embarrassingly low—he's down to the magazine in the pistol strapped to his jeans and that's about it. He hasn't swung by Duncan's in a few days—isn't sure he'd be welcome there at the moment, but going to some other supplier just feels plain wrong. Besides, he made a promise to Leo and he's desperate for his word to mean something to someone again.

Leo is outside, using the light of the garage floodlamp to drain the oil from Frank's car. Between the kids and David, the Liebermans had successfully scrubbed most of the paint off the door. The garage once again complies with their neighborhood's tyrannical bylaws by day, but as he looks out the kitchen window, Frank can still make out the afterimage of the numbers '781' on the door in the harsh lamplight.

David sits behind him at the kitchen table with Zach, puzzling over some advanced trigonometry problem he'd been assigned for homework. Lieberman hasn't touched that shit since college, so Frank sends subtle signals, minute shakes of his head when they head down the wrong track, quick nods when they're getting warmer. It's important to let a dad be a dad sometimes—Frank understands this better than most.

Frank himself is elbow deep in dishwater, passing the clean dishes on to Sarah to dry when he notices his phone vibrating insistently in his back pocket. He shoots Sarah an apologetic smile as he plucks the towel from her grasp to wipe his own hands dry. He pulls the phone out of his pocket and glaces down at the screen. It's not a number he was expecting.

Time slows around him as he taps the answer button.

"Hello?"

There's a long pause.

"Hello?" he repeats, "Sweetheart, are you there?" David and Sarah's faces both lock on Frank in confusion.

"...Pete?" The voice is small through the tinny speaker of his cell phone. "Pete, is that you?"

"Yeah it's me kiddo, what's wrong?"

"My dad's not picking up his phone," her voice is thick and hazy, on the verge of tears, like every word out of her mouth is a battle, "and I... I didn't know who else to call. I need help—I'm at a party, and I think someone... I don't feel good."

Frank's stomach churns, a raw angry heat kindling in his chest, and it takes only a moment to ravage his body like wildfire. Zach's face blanches and Frank watches the sense memory of a razor sharp knife pressing against flesh flit through the boy's eyes. He pushes himself away from the table and excuses himself to the bathroom. Sarah winces and follows after him, a sharp glance at Frank as she passes. Under any other circumstances, Frank might have felt guilty.

He flips the phone to speaker and places it on the kitchen table in front of David. Without missing a beat, Lieberman's fingers fly over his keyboard, running a back trace on the number.

"Where are you, sweetheart?"

"Umm... a house?" She slurs. She's losing concentration as they speak, and he can tell she doesn't have many lucid minutes left. Music pumps in the background, a deep thudding bass, and her voice trails off.

"Lisa, honey, I want you to find a bathroom, okay?" David's head snaps to look up at him, but Frank ignores him and carries on. "You find a bathroom and lock yourself in. Barricade the door, okay sweetheart? Don't you open it til you hear my voice, you got that?"

"Mmm."

The line goes dead, and he swears. Lieberman's trace has triangulated the call to a neighborhood in Queens, but no further. Good enough.

"You gonna tell me what that was about, Frank?"

"Nope," he snaps, turning to stalk out the door, then adds over his shoulder, "Not yet."

"Frank?!" David calls out, pointing to the key rack near the front door. "Leo's still working. Take mine."

Frank snatches the keys off the hook with a wave and speeds off in David's sedan past a confused Leo, who had just dropped the hood on his Mustang.

He doesn't hit a single red light on his way to the coordinates, and he makes a mental note to buy a bottle of scotch for Lieberman when he goes to pick up his car. The house itself isn't difficult to find, he only needed to follow his ears to the bass-pumpingest house he can find. It's a middle-class suburban home, nothing special, except for the red solo cups littering the front lawn and laughing teenagers stumbling out the front door, their guffaws screeching high and discordant into the crisp night air. Frank zips his coat up to conceal his pistol—these are children, or if they're not, they're certainly not adults either.

The front door of the house is wide open, so he slinks into the foyer past the couple making out on the threshold. The first bathroom he sees swings open as he locates it, a high school kid maybe sixteen years old stumbling out as he struggles with his fly. A girl the same age follows a few seconds later, giggles bubbling out of her mouth. He scans the kitchen, the living room, his trained eyes assessing for threats among the writhing crowd of adolescents and finding none.

It's not hard to find the second bathroom once his ears catch the sound of agitated male voices. He finds the source of the racket circled around a single doorway at the top of the stairs. They're taking turns attempting to shove through the door, but to no avail. He shoulders his way through the crowd that's gathered to watch the show, cutting a quick path through the unsuspecting teens. Frank zeros in on the kid who seems to be the ringleader, a tall blond boy with cropped hair and a varsity jacket declaring him the co-captain of Central High's varsity basketball team. Frank yanks him back from the door by the jacket collar just as the kid ramps up to slam his weight against the latch.

"Who's in there?" Frank growls, tugging the kid close to him.

"Crazy gimp bitch," the guy spits, "Fucking punched me in the face getting in there. Thought things were going well too—"

Frank notes the kid's busted lip with distant pride.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen next week." The kid tips his chin up in defiance, a cocky grin twitching at the corner of his lips.

Frank snarls, readjusts his grip and walks the kid back against the door, slight but firm pressure at his throat. One of his buddies, a big fucker, but still about twenty pounds smaller than Frank, steps up. Frank cocks his head to the side and bares his teeth, a feral grin and a dare rolled into one. Big Fucker trips over himself stumbling back, and scatters with rest of the posse on his heels.

"Whoa!" The kid raises his hands in surrender, compliant now that they're alone. "Whoa, Man! What's your deal?"

Frank knocks the door gently next to the kid's head. He drops his voice low.

"Lis'? Honey, you in there?"

"Mm... P—pete?"

"Yeah baby girl, it's me. You're safe. You can unblock the door now."

"Shit," the kid whispers. "Look man, we didn't realize she was spoken for. We were just tryin' to have a good time—"

Frank's attention snaps back to the kid.

"What's your name?"

"...Brad?"

Without removing the hand clamped around Brad's throat, Frank shakes down the kid's pockets, dropping a strip of condoms, a wallet, and some keys to the floor. He spins the kid around and slams his chest against the wall. A quick search of his back pockets, and Frank's hand closes around a baggie with two small white tablets inside. He holds the bag up to the dim light streaming into the hallway from a nearby bedroom to take a closer look.

"Relax, man! They're just roofies. She'll be fine!"

"What?" He exhales heavy, voice dropping to a growl.

"I'm sorry!"

"Not yet you're not."

Frank spins the kid back to face him and fishes out the remaining two pills from the plastic baggie. Brad's mouth falls open to gasp as the impact of his back forces air out of his lungs. Frank takes the opportunity to shove the tablets as far down Brad's throat as he dares, then clamps his palm over the kid's mouth.

"Swallow your fucking medicine or you won't like what I do to you next." Frank ducks his head down a few inches, leveling his face with Brad's. He breathes hot into the kid's face, relishing the drain of confidence bleed from the boy's face. "Relax, man. They're just roofies."

Brad's eyes bulge in terror as he swallows hard against Frank's hand. Frank grabs Brad's chin and jams his middle finger deep into a pressure point, forcing his jaw to fall open. Once satisfied the pills had been swallowed, Frank rears back. His fist connects with Brad's face with a simple solid crack, and the kid drops to the floor in a heap.

Frank shakes his hand off. He busted a knuckle and the tremors of bone impacting bone reverberate up his forearm to his elbow, but he honestly couldn't give a shit if he tried. He doesn't try. 

Frank turns back to the bathroom door, taps gently on the wood.

"Still with me, kiddo?"

"Mm."

Frank jostles the doorknob. Now unlocked and unimpeded, and the door swings wide open. Lisa— _Elise_ —sits there on the cold tile, skirt ripped halfway up her thigh. Her eyes struggle to stay focused on him as he kneels in front of her.

"I—I thought they wanted to be friends," she sobs. "I thought—I thought that—I thought..." Her voice slurs, tongue heavy in her mouth, "maybe... things were changing..."

"It's not your fault," he rasps, gathering her limp body in his arms. "You're safe now."

Her head falls against his chest with a pleased hum. She's nearly full grown, but curled up in his arms she seems like a kid again, tiny and weightless as he carries her out of the bathroom and down the stairs. If he ignores the pumping bass and the wary eyes tracking him as he carries her away from the house, he can pretend he's scooped her up from where she fell asleep on the sofa. Like she drifted off after subjecting him to _The Lion King_  for the tenth time in a row, instead of succumbing to a sinister cocktail of beer and rohypnol. He makes a point to grind the heel of his boot into Brad's hand as he leaves.

She allows herself to be arranged and buckled into the front seat of David's car, cooperating as much as her limp limbs allow. As soon as he climbs into the driver's seat and shuts the door, her head lolls against the passenger window with a thud.

He listens for her breathing on the drive home, his forefinger and middle finger pressing her pulse point every red light. Once satisfied she isn't in danger of overdose, he punches Karen's number into his phone. She's not thrilled to be woken up, but sobers when he explains the situation. It's close to midnight by the time he knocks on her door.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles as Karen opens the door to let him past.

"She gonna be okay?" Karen eyes Lisa warily, reaching into her hall closet for an extra blanket.

"Yeah, I thought it'd be a good idea to have a woman around when she wakes up," Frank explains, gently laying Lisa down on the couch and untangling her bag from her shoulders.

"That's true." Karen agrees, rubbing her eyes. "But if you wake me up again before 6am, I swear to God one of us will go Punisher tonight, and it won't be you."

It's an empty threat, but it's also kind of not. He nods, gesturing absently to the overstuffed armchair next to the couch. Karen kisses him on the cheek as she pads back into her bedroom.

Frank turns back to the couch, where his baby girl is passed out on the cushions, one arm splayed off the edge, her boots dangling over the armrest. He unlaces them, tugs them gently off and places them on the floor next to the couch. The blanket Karen pulled out is sitting on the coffee table, and he spreads it over her. The last time he'd done this, he'd been fresh off the plane home from Afghanistan. She'd been much smaller then, easily tucked under a throw. Now her toes stick out the bottom, and he arranges her sprawled limbs into what seems like a more comfortable position.

Karen has an assortment of mismatched glasses overflowing the cabinets of her kitchen. He fills the largest one he can find with water from the tap and sets it on the coffee table. He finds a clean bucket under the sink, and he slides it next to the couch near her face.

Her phone is sitting on the top of her bag and he scrolls through the recent calls log for Fred's number. She'd made exactly three calls that night in rapid succession—and none of them to Fred. Instead, the top three slots on her recent contacts list are occupied by the same name— _Pete_ , followed by a little icon. He squints down at the tiny picture, struggling to parse the image with aging eyes that are starting to betray him—a medieval castle with soaring turrets. He nearly drops her phone.

His heart rattles his ribs, the deep thrum of blood pounding against his eardrums. Frank has to step back. He looks down at the sleeping teenager passed out on Karen's couch, memories of standing in his and Lieberman's safehouse flashing in front of his eyes, his own face plastered across a screen everywhere he turns. His body goes cold and a pit opens in his torso where his stomach should be. He's been exposed, his safety compromised, cover blown.

He returns her phone to the top of her bag, and rushes to the kitchen to turn the faucet on. He splashes the stream of cold water across his face and stares down into the sink as the water drips off his nose onto the dirty dishes. Elise could have gotten a castle from the name Castiglione, he tells himself, it's not exactly a stretch and she's a smart girl.

Still.

He closes his eyes and counts to ten, bringing his breath back under control. He picks her phone back up and thumbs through her contacts until he finds it— _Dad_. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Voicemail picks up, and he leaves a brief message and replaces her phone in her purse.

He sits in Karen's armchair for a few minutes, his skin crawling. Each second the clock on her wall ticks away takes a minute, each minute an hour, as he watches the rise and fall of Elise's breathing under the blanket. _People think that torture is pain_ , he remembers telling Lieberman once, _it's not. It's time._

Karen's kitchen is a mess, so he tidies the counter for the sake of something to do, scrubs a few dishes down, lays them out to dry. She's been working on an expose of the Ryker's riot, some corruption and accounting that doesn't quite add up, and she always neglects housework when she's chasing a story. The files are spread over her kitchen table, photographs and printed spreadsheets, a series of autopsy reports. He sifts through the pages, picking up one of her pens and scribbling half-baked thoughts onto a pad of sticky notes and slapping the little pages onto the documents. Some are helpful observations, others are more along the lines of, "Ma'am, if _he_  told you that, I guarantee it's bullshit."

At the bottom of the stack, he uncovers a black folder, and slapped to the cover of the heavy cardstock is a yellow sticky note with a little doodle of a skull. He snorts.

"Cute."

The photograph laying on top is a snapshot of Metro-General hospital, taken from a cafe across the street. A streetcleaner blasts a layer of paint from the wall with a power washer, the filthy water flowing into the street. In the second picture, he recognizes the back alley of his old apartment building, a vantage just below the fire-escape. Thankfully not featured in the picture is the overwhelming stench of the back dumpster that the city only bothers to empty every other week. The next photograph, a high rise office building, built atop the concrete tomb of three of his shitbag former co-workers.

Puzzle pieces adorn the walls of all of them.

He flips the page, and the last photograph takes him by surprise. This location hadn't been on any list Lieberman gave him, but he recognized the facility immediately. The inside of a prison cell, single occupancy, much like the one that had been his home for several weeks during his trial before Fisk had busted him out. On the walls, scrawled in the unmistakable burnt iron red of dried blood, a lattice of interlocking puzzle pieces.

Beneath the photo a brief caption reads: Prisoner Designation: Jigsaw, followed by a date—a recent date, the day the riot had been quelled. He flips the photo over to read the note across the back, written in Karen's tight script: _Who is Jigsaw?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, i know it's been a while since my last update. i'm still working on it, school has just been kicking my ass. new chapters should start coming out early march or so. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come scream at me [on tumblr](http://fronkcastle.tumblr.com). Shoutout to [Turtle_Goose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtle_Goose/pseuds/Turtle_Goose)/[Lulu](http://needshiswheezy.tumblr.com) for the prompt that started this ball rolling, and [twelfthstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelfthstreet)/[Jessie](http://hvngryheart.tumblr.com) for betaing and just generally enabling this mess. :)


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